Upon this Earth
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: [vague onesided HarryDraco implications] You never say goodbye to your enemies. Draco is a firm believer in that.


_Upon this Earth_

By Kay

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Hell. Why didn't someone tell me this before?

Author's Notes: An older piece I haven't uploaded yet, but I figure I might as well.Pretty damnOOC, though, and a little quick for my tastes. Ignores Half-Blood Prince (it was written before that). Enjoy. :)

* * *

_  
And I have the sense to recognize  
But I don't know how to let you go  
I don't know how to let you go _

-- "Do What You Have to Do" by Sarah McL.

* * *

When he left on Saturday evening, the rain was a gray curtain falling to the earth.

Draco didn't join the crowd waiting in the Great Hall to bid him goodbye—there would be no point for someone who didn't care about his departure. Instead, he patrolled the hallways listlessly, one footstep echoing a second behind the first, and glanced through the open doors when he passed them. The first time, Dumbledore had been speaking, the entire room rapt with attention. The second time, they were lifting their glasses silently in a hush that was nothing less than a death sentence.

The Mudblood had been extremely pale all week. And the Weasel—well, even Draco hadn't bothered to insult him. It wasn't worth the effort anymore when all he received in return was a half-hearted sneer.

_'I have more important things to think about, Malfoy.'_

But that was just it, Draco thought contemptuously, his stride a bit more clipped than before. He glared fiercely at a first year trying to break into the Prefects bathroom, sending her scurrying off down the hallway, and snorted. He was surprised the entire damn school of Hogwarts wasn't crammed into that hall, toasting to the glory and idiotic bravery of Gryffindor heroes and their thick-headed stupidity. After all, everyone in the castle had been moping for over a month—dragging their heels, casting mournful looks at scarhead as though he were going to fade under their eyes.

They acted as though he was going to die.

_'There's always hope,'_ Draco thought reverently, kicking at a loose stone in the wall. He whirled around when it became apparent that he was going to pass the Great Hall again, scowling furiously. _'A world without Potter is a world we all need.'_

It wasn't as though he didn't stand a chance, though. He'd spent the past two years studying so much Defense Against the Dark Arts that it put even Draco to shame (though he'd never admit it), and he'd been prepared for every possibly circumstance. There was a new darkness to his eyes, a grimmer line to his mouth, but he was alive. The Boy Who Lived was alive long enough to become The Man Who Lived.

He was a little like a cockroach, Draco thought in irritation. He kicked at the wall again, scuffing his expensive shoes and heaving a sigh. A stupid, green-eyed cockroach that hadn't strung together a sentence in over three months. It was about time someone squashed him, anyway. It wasn't like the world needed more cockroaches.

Everyone in that hall sounded like they were murmuring a funeral chant.

He kicked the wall /i hard /i —a jolt of pain went straight up through his shin. Gasping, Draco stumbled against the stones and put all of his weight on the other leg. Picking up the hem of his robes slightly and prodding at it, he grimaced. The throbbing was already traveling up through his knee, and whatever he'd bruised wasn't going to numb itself any time soon.

He cursed his stupidity to himself. Even if it wasn't broken, it had been clumsy; something a Malfoy tried never to be.

From the hallway beyond, he could hear the soft speaking of several voices. Well wishing. Good lucks. Goodbyes. Part of Draco wondered if Harry even knew half of the people trying to support him or if he even cared anymore. They were all wishing for his safe return and triumph, but at the same time telling him farewell as though it was forever, bidding him off like a martyr.

It would be nice if Potter died and proved them right, Draco thought bitterly, clenching a handful of black fabric in one pale, spidery hand. His leg was splintered with pain. It would be fantastic if he never came back, never graced the hallways with his ugly smile and blank eyes. A day without trading barbed insults with an inferior? It was his idea of a paradise. Yes, if Potter was dead…

It would be wonderful if the Boy Who Lived no longer lived.

There was a lump of frustration swelling in his chest, but he clamped down on it. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking deep and steady breaths.

The rushing clatter of footsteps different from his own. The meeting to send Potter to his grave had finished. Hurriedly straightening himself so that he was languishing against the wall—no reason anyone had to know about his 'accident'—Draco worked up a disdainful stare as the various people filed past him in lines of somber faces. The Weasel glanced at him on his way, a glossy-eyed Granger clinging tightly to his arm in an unusual display of weakness, but there were no words exchanged. Whatever challenge had flared in the redhead's gaze was dampened by the desperate hold of the girl, and he moved on past.

_'I have more important things to think about, anyway,'_ Draco whispered mockingly to his back.

When the last of the students and faculty had left, their gait slow and heavy with the promise of nightmares, Draco found himself looking at the object of this misery.

Harry Potter certainly looked like a martyr. There was a liquid intensity in the black emerald of his eyes, a depressing strength to the straight of his back. His broad shoulders betrayed the tired slump to them, the fated prophesy pulling him down like the worst case of gravity. He only looked a little surprised to see Draco there, propped against the wall and watching him quietly. He turned to face the blonde.

"Malfoy."

"Potter," the boy acknowledged.

"Come to wish me off?" were the next awkward words spilling from his mouth, a soft, taunting laugh following them. The curve of his mouth was a bitter twist—not so much a smile as a false bravado.

Draco felt himself flush, and scowled furiously. "Shove off, Potter. I have nothing I want to say to you that I haven't been saying for years."

"It was the same for the rest of them." Potter gestured sourly towards the dissipating crowd in the distance. "Nothing to say, really."

He wasn't sure what to say to that. Instead, he pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes balefully.

The green-eyed boy didn't seem to take it personally. He was in another place—a faraway distance separating himself from Draco in his eyes, in the limp stance he held. There was more between them than years of animosity now, more than insults and bloodied lips. There was an entire future and inevitable fate that took him to places other than that hallway.

And then he turned around.

Draco watched him go. His messy black hair gleamed under the dim torch lights, his shoulders stiff. It was, the blonde suddenly realized with a slowly dawning disturb, that last time he would probably ever see him.

_'There is always hope,'_ he told himself again, but it didn't sound quite how he meant it. He said it again, but nothing changed. Nothing in the whole world changed—the hate was bubbling under the surface, his leg was still tender, and nothing had changed except that the hero was leaving him to this empty castle, in this hollow hallway with nothing but a bitter few words and a thought, _'There is always hope.'_

It was there, leaning against the wall and trembling with the effort to appear unaffected by his bruised foot, that Draco realized he would miss Harry Potter. That he would _miss_ Harry Potter, and this was the last time he might ever see him again.

"Potter!" the raw word ripped from his mouth before he could shove it down.

The Boy Who Lived paused in midstride. He slowly turned his head around, staring at him. The silence stretched between them in the darkening hallway.

Draco swallowed, ignoring the angry flush to his face and the uncomfortable feeling roused in his chest. Instead, he took a painful step forward, clenching his fists and growling deep in his chest. "Potter… you had _better_ come back alive."

"Alive?" There was a strange, startled note in his voice. He _looked_ at Draco for the first time in the past few months.

"Alive," he repeated firmly, refusing to look at him. He glared at the scuffed ends of his shoes peeking out from his robes. "Okay?"

If he had looked up, perhaps Harry would have been smiling. It sounded as though he was when he said, "Okay."

But when Draco raised his head, he was gone into a Saturday evening where the rain fell like a gray curtain to the earth.

_  
The End_


End file.
